


loose knots of severed threads

by layton_kyouju



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: F/M, Gaslighting, Gen, I Can't Stand Her Ass., Mentions of Sexual Assault, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Spoilers for everything, mentions of abuse, references to the books, references to witcher 1, references to witcher 2, the mentions of assault are not explicit in any way, triss critical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22779007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/layton_kyouju/pseuds/layton_kyouju
Summary: [ Mere nights after the tumultuous events of the peace summit at Loc Muinne, somewhere in the wilds of the Blue Mountains. ]Yennefer. Cirilla. The names clenched at his heart, coating it like dense ivy. Why, however, continued to elude him.Something was still missing. He had words, general vague timelines over the past few decades, but it continued to feel like a disjointed mosaic, a puzzle with far too many missing pieces to conjure the full image. His skull pounded the more he tried to seek out the gaps. It was difficult to put it all in perspective with bare statements, not full recollection.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 24
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

South.

Nilfgaard.

Yennefer.

The instructions still rang clear in Geralt's mind, a trade with Síle in exchange for him yanking the cracked diamond from her megascope as the air around them snapped and crackled and reeked of ozone, saving her from a gruesome death. It wasn't much, but it was something, and he had gone on far less before.

Truth be told, he was unsure how much he could trust the sorceress's information, what with  _ everything, _ but Síle's gratitude appeared genuine, and it aligned with the story Letho gave. At this point, he didn't have much to lose by trying.

The promise of  _ knowing _ made it worth any more shit he may have to go through.

Yennefer. Cirilla. The names clenched at his heart, coating it like dense ivy. Why, however, continued to elude him.

Something was still missing. He had words, general vague timelines over the past few decades, but it continued to feel like a disjointed mosaic, a puzzle with far too many missing pieces to conjure the full image. His skull pounded the more he tried to seek out the gaps. It was difficult to put it all in perspective with bare statements, not full recollection.

He knew of his chase after Yennefer across worlds and between, how not even the barriers of the cosmos themselves were going to stop him from reaching her. In the end he had traded his life for her own so she could go free from the Hunt’s grip, thus enlisting himself in their unknowable pursuit.

Beyond that, though, only a blank canvas.

There was a source of information sat just beyond the plume of spitting embers from him, yet the discomfort of merely asking was nigh unbearable, making him want to squirm.

All he could see when he looked through the air warped with heat was how it's chestnut shining gold in the firelight, not black as the night around them shimmering like peacock feathers. Blue eyes turned down into the flames, elsewhere, not sharp violet staring into his very being. Right to his vulnerable core.

A distant flicker of something, a night of fires and the riotous sounds of merrymaking through the dancing crowd. Of a star pendant emerging from the heathenous chaos, diamonds glowing bright. Lamenting on existence as relics unable to live as those frolicking free among the pyres, then cool skin beneath his lips. Wanting to warm that skin with reassurance and touch.

But then it's gone, slipping away from his fingertips like silk before he can grasp it.

Back to the one mirroring him across the blaze along with a stew of emotions and pain in his tightening chest. The chirrups of insects echoing among the tall grasses and leaves. The hot scent of charred bark biting in his nose.

After the complicated things she told him during their boat ride to Flotsam following his escape from Vizima's dungeons, and the things she'd  _ failed _ to tell him since meeting her at Kaer Morhen, he found it difficult to look her in the eye. "Toxic" was a particular descriptor that she had used as they sailed down the Pontar, but it didn't sit right, the wrong shape. It left a foul taste on his tongue.

He aided her in getting out of Loc Muinne with her life, but the worry for her turned in his gut when mixed with what he had learned over the past weeks. She said that she wanted to help him, that she owed him, and at the time he believed the earnest expression on her face as they stood in Flotsam’s inn, but now a worm wriggled deep in his thoughts.

Yet he didn't have the heart to go his own way after they stepped through the ruins' massive gates. Finding her frightened, beaten, and exhausted in that chamber, shackled to the mold-painted wall. He had snipped a bit, angered by her coveted secrets  _ that would have been very nice to hear earlier, _ but he couldn't leave her alone. The sight of her battered form still made a sense of guilt seize his ribs.

He still cared, despite it all.

After putting a distance between them and the threat of the Redanians, Nilfgaardians, and everyone else he royally pissed off at the conclave, he helped tend her wounds and gave her his cloak to fend off the chill of the evenings until they could find a proper village. With each passing of the sun and resurrection of the moon he made a point to keep the presence of the campfire dividing them while they slept.

But everything continued to eat at him. Itching under his skin, festering, vibrating with the anxiety and anticipation and other things he couldn't find the words for. What he was missing, what he was afraid to ask. The energy made him want to sprint through the nights, bolt through the trees as the foliage whipped and stung his face. Anything to get wherever in this wretched world he had to be as soon as possible. Triss was too weak from her ordeals to get them anywhere quick with magic, but the thought made him queasy anyway.

Fuck, he needed to  _ move. _

Geralt leaned up on one knee and reached for his silver sword beside him. He swung the sheathed weapon around his back, securing its metal buckle across his chest. With the weapon situated, he then grabbed his dagger and latched it to his belt. The weights bringing a bizarre sense of comfort, he rose to his feet.

"Gonna get more firewood."

Triss's form jolted in the corner of his eye, shaken out of her musings. "Now?" Her attention flicked to the healthy stack of dry kindling a few feet away, then back to him.

The witcher felt his pupils swell as he scanned the dark forest circling their meager camp. Beyond the reach of the fire's glow, the clear sky sent the full moon's gaze spilling over the ragged branches. Every blade and bramble was trimmed in a lace ribbon of silver. Ample light, no need to dig around in his satchel for a dose of Cat.

"Yeah, now."

He pushed off toward the trees before she could say another word.

The breeze grew cold as the hissing of the campfire faded at his back, replaced with the crunching of twigs and dead leaves beneath his boots. Little paws scuffling across the dirt, a far off owl singing into the emptiness, the lonely bay of a wolf seeking out its pack.

Geralt breathed deep, his lungs filling with the chill. It brought with it the smells of the mountains: the headiness of the trees that burned a bit in his throat, the thick musk of mud from a nearby stream, the innumerable bitter scents of animals to prove this lush wilderness was teaming with life.

Savoring the tingle of the sensations in his mind, he looked up to the wash of stars beyond the reach of the dark boughs above him. Glistening little dots over a rolling sea of blues, indigoes, and deep purples of frothing waves. The moon hung in its place like a shining new oren.

After so much rushing, racing, fighting, it was a relief to feel small for a moment. Utterly insignificant. At times it made him wallow in despondency, spending hours in silence wondering why he was forced into living, but now, in the peace of a realm untouched by the squalid decay sentient beings often brought, the fact that the world still went on regardless of what he did carried a bit of peace. A loss of weight, relief. Some things he would never be able to change, and that was fine.

But there were some things he could. He wanted that knowledge to carry him as far as he needed to go.

To the one who held the final pieces to this strange enigma of his being.

He watched the universe move on for a moment without his attempts at influence. Staring at the stars, listening to the foliage rustle as a badger waddled by a few feet away to find its supper. Let the faint breeze caress the ivory hair resting upon his shoulders.

Then he allowed the moment to fade. He had to go on.

Tuned back to the immediate surroundings, Geralt drew the dagger from his belt and set to work carving apart slender fallen trees that littered the forest floor. The rhythmic motions and rasp of sawing the blade through the bark and wood, followed by the thump of the branch hitting the soil, were relaxing in their repetition. However, he did not have the luxury to get lost in it. He kept his ears, nose, and eyes alert to the woods around him. Any distant rustle of bushes, tremble of his medallion, or vile tang of monster of ichor on the roof of his mouth could leave him an instant to react to any threat. It wouldn't do to drop dead so close to his answers.

Although, with the way his life had been going, it wouldn't surprise him.

With each tree fractured into manageable pieces, Geralt tossed them into a pile and moved onto the next.

Saw.

Saw.

Crack.

Toss.

Saw.

Saw.

Crack.

Toss.

Saw.

Saw.

Crack Toss.

Sawsaw crack toss.

_ Sawsawcracktosssawsawcracktoss _

His breath grated against his bared teeth. Sweat peaked on his brow and ran into his eyes, and a burn swelled in his arms and shoulders and back.

The trunk clenched beneath his glove fell away, knocking off his balance. He dropped to one knee in the damp loam, a twinge rocketing up his leg, his lungs pleading for air. He swept away the locks of white hair free from their ponytail, leaving wet streaks on stitched leather.

The witcher paused there for a beat, letting his body drink in what it needed. Once his heart calmed to its usual slow plod, he stood to his full height and walked up to the pile of wood as tall as his waist.

Well. That had been stupid. So much for not getting wrapped up in it. He focused his senses on the surrounding forest to be sure nothing had snuck up during the time he spaced out.

Scanning. Same quiet sounds, same faint smells.

With an irritated groan, Geralt began to gather the logs into his arms.  _ Dumbass, _ his internal voice dug. Idiotic mistake like that. He shook his head. Stupid.

The wind shifted.

A tickle in his nose.

The witcher stopped.

He breathed in, deep, until his lungs strained with the burden. He opened his jaws, allowing the air to graze the roof of his mouth.

His arms went limp, numb. The logs thudded onto the forest floor at his feet.

Geralt ran, the scent dancing on his tongue his sole guide through the undergrowth. Weaving among the trees growing dense around him. Flying shadows in the wash of dark greens and blues.

Every inch of his flesh tingled, needing, craving. Hair on his nape standing on end against the collar of his armor. Heart slamming against his sternum with the sharp burn of adrenaline.

It hit him, overwhelming, making him teeter on his feet. Cold. Cold in his fingers, his temples, despite the sweat flushing on his forehead and neck.

Around the trees littered a cropping of shorter foliage, rough with scattered leaves and splayed branches. The witcher stumbled toward them, the sweet aroma consuming him inside and out.

Delicate little flowers huddled in conical clusters, soft purple glowing in the pale beams of the moon.

He touched a bloom with a careful finger, the small petals soft on his worn gloves. He leaned in, the scent filling him past the brim like an amphora spilling over.

Something slotted into place, at long last.

Lilacs.

A wish. A wish brought on by fear, fear for another, but even deeper, brought on by  _ love. _ Love that struck him in the head like a jagged stone upon seeing violet eyes, a dry, impervious grin. It yanked at his ribs and broke them apart to claw at his beating heart the world said did not exist.

Words dripping from his lips as simple as breathing. Tying them, uniting them. Perhaps it had been foolish, but it had gotten the job done, saving her.

Yet they both ached. Feared. Desperate and longing for the close warmth of the quiet nights in hushed tones side by side but fleeing each time when it all became too new, too foreign, too much. Their minds couldn't fathom it unless it  _ hurt. _

Fear of being undeserving, unbelieving, of it all ending yet again and being alone in the miserable world. Self-fulfilling prophecies of two broken souls marred by decades of scars.

Something more had been needed.

A little girl hunted by a massive insectoid, its legs and carapace crackling as it drew on its prey through the ferns. The girl's emerald eyes huge and glistening with tears, her mousy hair brittle with caked mud and leaves.

Vows made years ago, of what was had but not yet known. Vows he denied, year upon year. A foul storm leaving a queen brokenhearted. Not just a queen, but a mother. He could not take away all that remained. Couldn't let yet another little life slip away at the hands of chemicals and magic ravaging through delicate muscle and bone. Too much to take.

Couldn't force another to suffer the same fate.

Sniffling in his ear, cuddling up to his side, asking for a bedtime story beneath a sea of stars and branches. Time and distance could never break the bonds of those linked by fate, despite how hard he denied it. It did always come back to bite him on the ass.

Breaking, fleeing yet again, his name in a shrill cry on the breeze.

All shattering in the clang of swords and stench of death and smoke. No point, all gone, let it all end. Acceptance.

Until ashen hair and a grey dress appears on the hill with his name once again carried to his ears. Burning up his leg damn it hurts but he couldn't care less, he needs the warmth of her in his arms, clinging to his shoulders with small hands.

"I'm your destiny."

"You're more."

Finding and losing, finding and losing, the three of them together only to be ripped apart again and again. So much blood spilled on derelict castle tiles in the process, so many lives gone because of him. Left to rot away, stains and dust and bone in those cursed, crumbling walls. So much guilt.

So much pain.

He thought it would be the last time, that they would be at peace at long last. Not just surviving. 

Living.

Living because of love.

A pitchfork to the gut and watching his own red essence trickle between the cobblestones like spreading roots ended that hope.

Slender fingers at his temples, magic fizzling as the dark creeps into the edges of his gaze, consuming. Fingers he always craved the caress of.

Nothing.

Woke covered in bandages on an island smelling of apple blossoms, a swath of raven black hair beside his head. Dead? Alive? Fuck if he knew. It was never to last, though. It never was. Something always had to ruin whatever little scrap of happiness he could find.

More metal and smoke and stench of rot. A flash into a streak of blue-green light. Then running. Falling into cold mud. His name once again hung in the air with the falling rain.

The hollowness was gone, filled with.

Everything.

Bursting at the seems.

Every emotion, every joy, every loss. Every laugh and tear and anything in between ripping him apart from his core. Pulling his entire being asunder like a roar of Aard.

Pieces.

Whole.

Agony.

"-alt!

Distant, muffled like spoken beyond the surface of rushing water, and he was drowning. Sinking.

"Geralt!"

He surfaced.

The world span around him. Tree branches swirled above, the stars spiraling beyond the reach of the campfire.

His stomach roiled and churned. He rolled onto his side on the splintering grass. Muscles quivered and heaved, begging for something to come up so it would _just stop,_ but there was only air and spit and snot running down his lips as he coughed.

His forehead pressed onto the dirt, cool against his hot, clammy skin. His haggard breaths rattled the dead leaves.

A hand pressed against his back. "Geralt, are you all right?" came the lilted voice, brimming with worry.

_ Strange hands touching over skin, the room fuzzy and distant. There had been a voice, unknown, while every inch of his body was sore and weighed down by swamp water. Sounds of Vizima bustling outside. Curled chestnut hair and a slight white gown moving across the floor. _

_ "Checking for injuries." _

Geralt made a sad attempt to move away, wrists shaking beneath his weight. Another roll of nausea twisted his gut, knocking him back to the ground, his cheek pressed into the earth. He hissed out a breathy "what" before the world began spinning again.

"You were gone for a long while," she replied, calmer now, guessing his question. "I went to look for you and found you unconscious in the woods." She reached out to brush away the hair fallen over his face, but he jerked his head aside.

She noticed.

Geralt looked back toward her, his jaw tense. "Triss."

She was silent, staring. Her hands wrung in her lap, her face an emotionless facade, from what he could make out in the haze.

Seconds passed, slow and excruciating.

"Why?" His throat closing. Hard to speak, breathe.

The sorceress looked away, her eyes, what lay beyond, hidden beneath her gilded lashes.

"I thought… I…"

His gloved fingers dug into the sod, quaking. Flesh a sheet of ice with flames roaring to life beneath.  _ "What,  _ Triss?" he grunted, his own heartbeat flooding his ears. Dread creeping up.

She flinched, but there was something stiff about it. Deliberate. Her gaze locked with the campfire crackling beside them.

"I don't know. I thought you could finally be happy," Triss whispered, a slight tremble in her lips. She clutched Geralt's cloak draped around her shoulders. "You could finally move on from everything that hurt you."

Flashes behind his eyes.

It had. It  _ had _ hurt.

Leaving a handful of gently picked flowers on the dresser in his wake as everything devoured him from the inside like parasites. Once again forcing himself into long nights alone because he believed that was all he deserved. All he would ever have.

But it had also filled him with light.

Hope.

The peace. The joy he felt. How bright the world became at the appearance of a smile, a laugh. No walls. Hands in his. Hands he pressed to his lips, worshipping. A smaller one reaching up to hold his wrist, reassurance that his words were true, they would never part again. Black, white, and gray.

Shining.

His entire world.

During his brief stay at Kaer Morhen, before everything went to hell in a handbasket in the span of a day, Geralt had felt a distant, faint whisper that a sorceress had been important to him. But nothing of their brazen child with eyes glowing like green embers.

How could he have forgotten?

Convenient that no one had said a  _ damn thing. _ Tight lips, brief glances. Not a gods-damned thing. Something pointed and hungry awoke in him, dormant after two years of slumber. Sharp. Digging its way upward.

A new thought drifted into focus. That rose. Geralt felt the clicks and turns, facined together. A maroon petal pressed between Philippa and Saskia's lips, the electric static of magic filling the chamber, the spell complete.

A rose Triss said could help him regain his lost memories when he told her some began to bubble to the surface, but.

The surge he felt in his veins as they spoke, their voices echoing off the ancient, mossy walls of the elven bath, rippling off the water. A fog that muddled his thoughts but was gone in a blink.

A familiar fog.

Oh.

Oh  _ shit. _

"Geralt, please, I-" A peak of begging in her voice, her eyes, pinching her brow. Fingers stretching toward him. Gracing his cheek before he could process it.

Every nerve and muscle repulsed as if scorched by a flame. Geralt reeled back in the weeds, his teeth grit. "Don't  _ fucking _ touch me!" he spat. He fought past his sour stomach and scrabbled to his unsteady feet. His vision filled with dark speckles dancing around him.

_ Leave, leave, leave, _ __every fiber of him chanted. Flight, adrenaline, coursing through him like any battle with a fiend or leshen. Any monster.

"Geralt, wait!"

The witcher whipped around, his sight blurring, but not from the dizziness. He tore his satchel and steel sword from the ground, breaking for the treeline without bothering to toss them onto his shoulder.

Rustling in the grass as she stood, a cry echoing through the trees, high and sharp. Pleading.

He didn't fucking care.

Trunks and vines rushed past, smears of dark blue, purple, and green. Images of a life long past all colliding together, faces, names, eyes, so many eyes, almost a century of days and nights, of strife and suffering and the little moments of happiness that had the power to outweigh all the torment surrounding them like a poisonous moat.

A little island that lessened the torture of simply being alive.

Find them, the tethers lashing around his soul pulled taught. Yanking, can’t move fast enough. No matter how or where but he needed to  _ find them. _

But did he even deserve to? After what he had done? Them being out there, someplace in that callous world, to gods' knew what fate while he had been fumbling around with knight orders and freedom fighters and a woman who had… had…

_ Touches of something  _ other _ caressing his mind, pulling, drawing. Then darkness. _

Years of pushing it back, pushing it back, must have just been a stupid mistake tempted by heartache after another parting with the only one he wanted. Guilty burden on his heart, all him.

_ Waking up beside a wash of chestnut hair on the pillows with no recall of how, why. _

It must have been.

_ Bubbling confusion and panic in his chest. _

Couldn't have happened, not to him.

_ His choice? _

Not to-

_ His fault? _

But the cold, sickening feeling crept along his gut. Up his throat. Sitting behind his teeth.

_ Violet eyes dark with regret and pain. _

Fuck.

Shit.

_ Fuck. _

Eyes burning from the air and the branches swiping his flesh and tears he refused to let fall. Thicket and brambles yanking at his armored breeches and jacket. Wind roaring past his ears, foliage cracking as he burst through, the claws of small creatures fleeing from his path, all drowned out by the thundering throb of his heart. Desperate breath sucking into his chest.  _ Dammit dammit dammit dammit- _

He ran. He didn't know where to, and it didn't matter. Just somewhere else.

Anywhere else.

Until he ran out of ground.

His boots skittered to a halt on rocky terrain before his mind could register the empty air before him.

Clattering echoed, little scraps of stone falling down down down into the ravine below.

Geralt stumbled backward, his body trembling.

Stopping once his footsteps were muffled by crisp grasses. The sky's currents washed over the horizon like the frozen seas of Skellige descending into a void. Distant cliffs and mountains stretching out, dusted in white glowing blue in the cloak of night. The chasm stretched wide before him, fading past the edges of the trees flanking him and the ascending peaks beyond.

White plumes billowed from his parted lips, rising into the cloudless sky.

He screamed.

He screamed until he felt the fire of it scorching up his throat, the copper on his tongue. Until his lungs had depleted of all strength and he fell onto his shins in the dirt. The rest of him crumpled along, fingers clutching at the sparse grass. Head bowed, hair curtaining around his head in a flood of silver in the moonlight.

He had to see them. Hold them in his arms. Feel the cool electricity that followed in the trail of Yen's touch, along with the gentle smile she would always grant him when her fronts melted away. Hear Ciri's hearty laughter and sense the warmth that radiated from her in powerful waves when she wrapped her arms around him for a tight embrace he couldn't resist returning.

Searing heat spilled down his face and onto the soil, all of it too much to bear and spilling out. He shuddered, alone with the moon overhead as his sole company.

The lone wolf baying for its kin.

Recall the smells of lilac and gooseberries and sparrow feathers. Clutch it for dear life lest they leave him again with nothing.

He longed for them with the force of all their time apart at once. A massive, festering wound where there had once been a black emptiness in his core. Bleeding. Aching for them.

But he could go no further now. The shaking grew less and less, each nerve frayed to exhaustion. Slowly, he sat up, his legs bent beneath him, and scrubbed the sides of his gloves across his face with a deep breath and a loud, long sniff. Reaching out, he gathered what little twigs and dry leaves were nearby and made a pitiful structure with the materials. It would have to do.

Geralt curled his fingers, an orange spark coming to life in the kindling with a faint pop and hiss. He set down his blades and pack beside the sad little flame.

His skull filled with a dull buzz. The flashes had ended, but his brain continued to hum, attempting to process it all. A big mess like a different life trying to line up with the one he had been living for what now felt like a millisecond in comparison.

His body couldn't take anymore.

Sinking to the ground, Geralt curled up on the earth. The grime on his skin and hair would make no difference; nothing could make him feel more filthy. Scrubbing until his flesh was shorn away would not make him clean, wipe away the phantom brushes crawling over his flesh. Memory of lips forced upon his as they stood in the stables despite his resistance. Disgust heavy in his gullet.

The cold hilt of a sword pressed against his fingertips through leather, grounding.

No sleep. Just lie there, the cool mountain breeze sweeping around him as golden eyes stared into the horizon, waiting.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would walk. Find a way down or across. Perhaps some higher power he didn't even believe in would give him a sliver of good luck and he would find a village, maybe a horse someone was willing to part with for some orens.

A horse he already knew he would name Roach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well.
> 
> if you've read my fic "aftermath" and/or follow me on twitter, you know I want triss merigold to rot in hell. I hate the many things she did to hurt geralt, yen, and ciri, and I hate that it all gets brushed aside bc cdpr is biased toward her and the only repercussion she faces is geralt may not be w her depending on the player's choices. the game still seems to act like it was geralt's choice to be w her in the first place when she was the one manipulating him all along. and of course none of his friends said a thing abt yen or ciri until the 2nd game, and ciri isn't even mentioned by name. triss states outright in w3 that she used him, but the game still treats her like she's sweet and innocent.
> 
> it makes me So. Angry.
> 
> I want to be clear that geralt is not at fault for the things triss did to him. he feels like he is bc that is a product of abuse, feeling like things out of your control are your fault bc of what the abuser says or does. the same goes for her assaulting him. he is not ruined or dirty bc of what she did, but he does feel violated and hurt. I hate that sapko talks abt triss literally admitting she assaulted geralt by using magic but it's then forgotten, and she continues to try being w him despite how many times he says no. I attribute some of that to geralt repressing it and believing it was his choice a little bc of masculinity and also just bc he doesn't want to think it happened. I want to think his memories falling back into place along w what he experienced after waking up at kaer morhen would make him realize the truth of what occurred.
> 
> I just want him to finally be free. I want him to be able to be mad abt what was done to him, not the "he still had feelings for her" bullshit the game tries to push or making it seem like he was w her by choice. she used him, manipulated him, and assaulted him.
> 
> I want him to be able to heal.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is just a pic I drew to go with the tweet I made to link to this fic, and I like it. It's a physical representation of the visceral emotions Geralt experienced regarding the things done to him and the pain he felt.


End file.
